


The Curious Case of Sherlock Holmes

by AnIntelligentIdiot



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnIntelligentIdiot/pseuds/AnIntelligentIdiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson is a psychiatrist at St. Bart's Hospital. One night, in traipses Sherlock Holmes, a frothing mad man with an uncanny knack for deductions and observations. After rescuing Holmes from an episode due to an overdose, Watson is assigned as the man's regular doctor. As he begins to diagnose the man, Sherlock manages to wiggle his way into every aspect of the doctor's life. Include the romantic aspects...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Sherlock This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> hey, so this is the start of thing I wrote a while ago. i wanted to publish it because why not :) enjoy!

The first time Doctor John Watson saw Sherlock Holmes, it was three in the morning. A glance outside the windows showed that it was bleak and dark in London and every fiber of Watson's being knew that he ought to be asleep right now. 

But, of course, it was holiday season and everyone knows that the holidays are the most common times for nervous breakdowns. Over the past week, psychiatrist John Watson had seen more than his fair shared of exhausted stressed out housewives and overachieving children. Having finally hit their boiling point, which varied person to person, devolved into what Watson scientifically called “a hot mess”. 

However, Sherlock Holmes was nothing like what Watson anticipated to receive on the 17th of December at 3:00. He flew in, a bundle of gangly limbs, whirling about in his captor's hands. It was taking three nurses to subdue the previously police-detained man and, judging by the already darkening bruise underneath one's eye, it was a tough feat.

Being the current doctor on call at St. Bart's Hospital psychiatric section, Dr. Watson dutifully traipsed towards the four struggling beings. The man was still struggling furiously, yet clearly tiring, his limb movements becoming more and more sporadic, less violent and powerful. Those taut muscles appeared to be giving out. It was a surprise to Watson that the man had any strength at all to put up a fight that was anything less than futile. His face was gaunt, creating cheekbones that looked so sharp they could cut you, and he was lanky to the point of emaciation. Yet Watson could tell that the man's slender muscles were not to be underestimated. They could do some damage.

Purely a scientific observation.

“Name?” Watson queried the male nurses, who were still puffing heavily, whilst pulling out the Mont Blanc pen his sister Harriet had given him on his last birthday, an attempt to reunify the two siblings after a particularly heated encounter. Watson had just learned of his sister incredibly stupid and ill-advised actions, which included a vast period of raging alcoholism as well as breaking it off with her delightful wife, Clara. 

“That Mont Blanc pen,” muttered the detainee, his voice intelligent and seemingly self-aware, quite a distinction to the unkempt bristles covering his cheeks and the multiple stains and crinkles in his clothing. The only bit of his appearance that seemed un-unkempt was his hat, the sort of hat one might expect an old man to wear. A deerstalker. Perhaps, at one point in time, he had been a decent citizen of the U.K., respectable even. Watson felt a pull towards this man, a pull to suss out the cause of his hysteria.

“Oh this? Yes, a gift-” 

The man cut him off. Quite rudely, in fact. “A gift from your wife. She is somewhat estranged to you, shown by the extravagance of the gift. And she is blonde.” The man's eyes narrowed as he sussed out these details from seemingly the thin air.

“I'm sorry, sir, but this pen was a gift from my sister.” He paused. “She is blonde, though. Kudos on that!” And the estranged part too, was quite on par. As he dismissed the man's clearly hysterical deductions, the patient still remained nonplussed.

“Interesting, but I was not speaking to you.” Easily, he swiveled in his captors' grasps. “My deductions were directed to him.” Everyone's gaze in the waiting room fell on Dr. Lestrade, head of the psychiatric department. Slid into the pocket of his dress shirt was also a Mont Blanc pen, black and chrome. He was humming as he quickly strode by, faint music filtering out of the white earphones plugged into his ears. 

Watson seemed to recall that Lestrade's wife was, in fact, blonde and, if the rumors were deemed to be correct, had been cheating on him with a doctor at another hospital. That is one definition of estrange, Watson supposed.

“And what of my pen?” 

The man grinned devilishly. “Yours is a fake.” 

With derision, Watson stared down at the pen in hand, pursing his lips. Was it dull of him to be believe his alcoholic, jobless, and recently divorced sister, with a history of less than admirable decision making, could afford such a lavish gift on a less than affectionate brother? 

“Name, sir?” He repeated his previous question. A good doctor never entertains the ravings of a lunatic patient, no matter how unsettlingly true they may appear to be. Though, in his head, he had already made plans to visit the Mont Blanc store tomorrow, to ascertain the validity of the man's statement. God, if he was right... Could Harriet not deign to be truthful and open with John, her own blood, about any aspect of her life?

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” And with one last voracious grin, his eyes lolled back and he devolved into frothing madness, clearly a side effect of some drug he'd ingested.

“Fuck,” cursed John Watson, having been only 2 hours from the end of his shift and now faced with a crucial medical situation. After years in the E.R., he'd chosen to go into psychology, a field he considered less emotionally stressful than emergency medicine. Episodes like this made his eye twitch, a left over affect of his previous vocation. It hadn't occurred in a while though. He made another mental appointment to see the optometrist tomorrow to check on his eye health. 

As spurts of blood spit up from the Holmes man's mouth, Watson knew he was to spend the next few hours in the vicinity of this odd overly confident man. 

"Crash cart! Now!" Watson yelled. God, it was a bit exciting to be back in the field. Watson didn't notice it, but, as he stood staring at his frothing patient, that eye twitch lapsed, only for a moment. But still, one second goes a long way.  
____

"And how are we feeling?" Watson asked Sherlock Watson, who was now slowly opening his eyes, peeking out from unconsciousness. His hair was a complete mess and his eyes were tinged with blue underneath. Yet, even completely exhausted and in a less than flattering hospital gown, Watson couldn't deny that he appeared to belong more on a billboard in a fancy suit than sitting in a hospital deranged.

He quirked a single perfect eyebrow at his doctor. "Ah, the man with the faux pen! Well, if you must know, I feel as though I've been poked and prodded with many needles, full of all kinds of delightful chemicals and drugs." He took a deep breath. 

Watson pulled out a notepad. "Well, now that the funs over and seeing as you are now officially on detox, so there is no more need for you to be filled with any more liquids-" Watson blushed for some reason he could not pinpoint."I mean drugs, more specifically, then now is the perfect time to get started on your patient history." 

Sherlock threw him a Cheshire cat smile and Watson could feel his face getting progressively hotter. Was it just Watson, or was the air conditioner in the room broken? He'd have to check with maintenance later on. Though, Sherlock didn't appear to be flushed at the moment...

"Your face is a bit red, friend. You may want to be seeking the attention of some medical personnel, other than yourself." The insinuation was so subtle Watson wasn't sure if Sherlock meant it the way it sounded. You know, as though Watson ought to 'help himself' or be 'helped'. 

In any case, Watson decided to shoulder on.

"I assure you, I am healthy. In any case, we ought to start with the preliminaries." He paused for a moment, allowing Sherlock the time to step in and contradict Watson or to offer up some issue or anything else. Watson found it was helpful to watch how a patient acted, before any real therapy session occurred. To acquire a baseline, if you will.

Sherlock jumped at the chance to interject.

"Ooh, preliminaries. I am quite fond of those!" Watson mentally rolled his eyes, since doing so with his literal eyes rather than his metaphorical ones would be quite unprofessional and Watson, despite today's fervent blushing, was nothing if not professional.

“Has anyone ever told you that you make rather caustic remarks.”

“Most of my observations are indeed sarcasm-based.That does not, however, invalidate their usual truthfulness.” 

Watson rolled his eyes, forgetting his so called professionalism for a second. Something about this man was pulling the doctor out of his usual behavior. And, if Sherlock's Cheshire cat grin was anything to go by, the madman knew the effect he was having on his poor doctor.

“Well, if you could mute your 'observations' for a moment, I'd be delighted to actually begin the paperwork.” John uncapped his ballpoint pen. He'd switched it out for the Mont Blanc pen his sister had gifted him, not yet having a chance to check up on its origins. “My name is Doctor John Watson. I shall be your doctor during you stay unless events dictate otherwise. Is this agreeable?” 

Sherlock ignored his question and, instead, segued into a conversation of his own picking. Domineering,Watson noted. He added it to the mental list of characters he'd been building since the previous night. (It was now 9:32 in the morning). Sarcastic, observant, clever. John laughed to himself for a moment, noticing the incredible similarities between Sherlock and his old girlfriend in college. You know, besides the gender difference.

“I see you have switched pens. Are you merely entertaining a patient's delirious convictions or did you check up on the pen?” 

The good doctor rolled his eyes, forgetting himself once more. “Mr. Holmes, I need your verbal confirmation that you are okay with me remaining to be your doctor.”

Holmes grinned that odd grin of his that was making John more than a little uncomfortable. “Gosh, you are a needy one, demanding my affection to be declared. Yes, Dr. Watson, you are very agreeable to me.”

Ah, there was that blush again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little spat. But then a nice little tension riddled make up for Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes.

“I think you may have misdiagnosed me, John.” John rolled his eyes at the familiar term that Sherlock used when addressing his psychiatrist. Long ago, Watson had given up trying to put up boundaries between the two. And by long ago he meant a week after Sherlock had been admitted. It'd been a strange two weeks, to say the least. When Holmes wasn't moodily skulking in his room, he was rolling around the halls in a wheel chair he'd stolen from the closest cripple, making derivative comments and jibes at all that passed him by.  
“Have I really? Please elaborate.” Watson's last sentence was an example of pure sarcasm. Sherlock Holmes was prone to elaborate his point of view so languorously and so often that by the time he finished, you forgot what his initial point even was.  
“Well, kindly doctor of mine,” He began, nearly eliciting an eye roll from John, had John not been a super example of professionalism. “I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.”  
“Well, a degree I've got hanging up on my office wall will tell you that I have in fact, done my research, as you so delicately put it. I stand by my diagnosis.”  
“Really, Dr. Watson?”  
“Ooh, Dr. Watson?” John queried. "Why so cold, Sherlock. Simply moments ago I was dear John. Is it because I took the extreme liberty to disagree with you?” Watson spoke whilst scratching down things on a legal pad. Most of what he wrote was nonsensical, as he wrote things down simply to irk Sherlock.  
Sherlock smashed his palms together and placed his hands underneath his chin, fingertips digging into it. It was his “thinking pose” or, as Watson described it, his “pissed off” posed. Which Sherlock did quite often. Apparently most things in life piss him off beyond belief. The rest of the world just has not quite caught up with Sherlock's smarts.  
“Are you not the one notorious for demanding boundaries in our relationship? Perhaps I have made a step forward in my mental health and have deigned to allow you your precious boundaries.”  
Watson laughed out loud. “Yes, and my name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”  
Sherlock glared at him. "There's no reason for you to get angry and start spouting rubbish." He proceeded to stand up and angrily stalk out of the room. With legs like that, Watson observed, Sherlock never really walked. Instead he did this almost shuffle, his back bent backwards slightly, showing off the flat slope of his torso.  
Dr. John Watson sighed. Talking to Sherlock was like pulling teeth. He paused, contemplating that statement. No, really, talking to Sherlock was more like talking to an angry ex-girlfriend that you never really got over so you still have to be kind of sort of nice and flattering to her.  
After taking a few moments of breath and contemplating whether getting Sherlock some of his favorite pudding from the cafeteria would be a sufficient apology or if Watson ought to go the extra mile like maybe some cake or something would be better, John stepped out of his own office. It was time for rounds.  
In between visiting a single mother who had a spectacular breakdown involving some forks and knives and her bitchy stepford neighbor and a fairly young man who had pushed himself too hard between varsity sports and advanced courses in high school, Watson realized he'd never really stopped thinking about Sherlock Holmes. Damn, that Sherlock Holmes.  
It was ridiculous beyond belief to Watson that one single patient dominated his entire thoughts. He went through the motions for the rest of the day before giving up. No good work was going to be done today. Not until Watson got some sort of closure with Holmes and that petty little argument.  
One hour and a trip to the supermarket later, Watson slowly walked unsurely to room 22 in the B wing. Sherlock's prized room. The nurse that attended this room was particularly fond of Sherlock Holmes. Also, she said the strangest things to Watson. Almost teasing. And insinuating certain things about Watson and Sherlock's relationship that might be slightly unprofessional.  
"Hey, Mrs. Hudson," Watson greeted her warmly. He had to admit, he was quite fond of the old woman. She was exciting the room, a bewildered expression on her face.  
"Oh, Dr. John Watson! How glad am I to see you!" She grasped Dr. Watson's lab coat clothed arm. "Mr. Holmes is in quite a mood today. I have a feeling a visit from you is exactly what he needs." She winked cheekily and Watson felt a blush spread across his face. For some reason. He had no idea why of course.  
He simply nodded and then walked into the room, preparing himself for the impressive wrath of Sherlock Holmes. Watson was surprised almost when he saw the slender toned man sulkily hiding under his covers in fetal position. He'd taken his shirt off as he was wont to do when it was late as it was now (nearly 11 o'clock). His shoulders were pulled taut and visible under the messy dark brown hair.  
"How goes it, Mr. Holmes?"  
Mr. Holmes didn't turn around but Watson could tell he'd clenched his leg muscles at the sound of Watson's voice. Could he have been that upset? Watson waited for a while for a response. After what seemed like a while, finally the great Sherlock allowed a response.  
"Mr. Holmes, is it? Who is the formal one now?"  
Watson chuckled. "I deserve that." He took a few cautious paces to the bed, in his hands a large cake with 'SORRY FOR BEING AN ARSE' messily iced on top in Watson's own hand.  
"I got you a cake." Immediately Sherlock turned around. Watson almost laughed but held it, in case Sherlock got angry again.  
"Ah, my darling doctor." Sherlock pounced out of bed and grasped the cake. Her lips quirked up at the sight of what was iced into the cake. Watson couldn't help but stare at the little smile while Sherlock was fixated on the cake. It was now in both Sherlock and Watson's hands, their fingertips brushing. Watson gulped. "You always know what to say."  
"Th-thank you," Watson stuttered. Neither of them moved for a while. Their fingertips grasping each other's.


End file.
